


Crown of Amber Canopy

by asimbelmyne



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, First Kiss, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 23:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21044594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asimbelmyne/pseuds/asimbelmyne
Summary: "I'll wait for you, Éomer son of Éomund," she said, releasing his hand. "You burn brighter than I."





	Crown of Amber Canopy

**Author's Note:**

> "Crown of Amber Canopy" by Slow Meadow is the song I listened to when I wrote this. This story is a dumpster fire but it's my dumpster fire, so I guess that's okay.

Lothíriel kicked her shoes off in one swift motion, holding the hem of her dress high above her ankles in an attempt to keep the soil from staining it. Her garden was wet with dew, glittering faintly in the moonlight as though every leaf had become its own star, mirroring the sky above like a body of water. She felt weightless, suspended somewhere between Middle Earth and Valinor until she had grown uncertain as to whether she continued to stand within the walls of Minas Tirith or not. This illusion didn't last for long. Tempered steel shone just as fiercely in times of desperation, staining the ground a deep and vibrant red. The weight of her dress reminded her of her responsibilities, driving into her shoulders like the sharp edge of a spade, uprooting the ambiguity she had attempted to sow within herself. She stifled a cry of indignation with her free hand, digging her toes deeper into the soil as if it were an anchor. Everything had its place in life, every stem, leaf, and petal, but she had never been fond of her own. She craved freedom, using knowledge as a gateway to craft her own world, shaping its foundations with her own two hands. In her garden, she didn't have to worry about her stature in life, the expectations everyone seemed to have for her, or her father's stern words. She took refuge inside of it, nurturing plants until they had grown large enough to consume the sky, weaving their way into every spare space, forging their path regardless of the obstacles within it. When these plants died, new ones took their place, reaching towards the light like fingers, straining to reciprocate the sun's embrace. She felt like a flower herself, struggling to survive in a world where darkness dictated the actions of men, spurring them onwards in pursuit of hope. In resignation she fell to her knees, ignoring how her dress had begun to turn brown. She reached for her flowers and held their stems tightly between her fingers, repeating their names under her breath as she pulled them from the earth. Athelas, yarrow, basil, lemon balm, and lavender, all deceiving in appearance, yet practical in application. Even beautiful things could be useful. Existing as an object of admiration made her feel helpless and she had grown tired of being treated as though beauty alone could heal men. It wasn't realistic. Folding the flowers into the hem of her dress, she stood up, staring into the darkness as if it were staring back at her, threatening to steal the light that burned within her soul.

She wasn't alone.

The sound of suppressed tears chased the darkness away and instead of staring into shadows and at unfamiliar shapes, she was staring into the eyes of a broken man. She knew how she must have looked right then and there, dirty and bedraggled, cradling an armful of flowers like a thief. A wave of heat forced its way across her face, spilling over her skin as though she'd knocked a bottle of ink on its side, displaying her embarrassment at being caught in such a strange place. She felt compelled to look away but something in his gaze drew her forward, dispelling her uncertainty until she had become complacent, drifting to his side like a leaf caught in a favourable breeze. He was standing beneath her sunflowers, staring into their mournful faces as though he could understand them, straining to comprehend sentences spoken in a language beyond the grasp of man. His hair shone like molten gold in the moonlight, a crown of tangles and braids that suited him, stifling the blush that stained her cheeks. It was uncommon to see so much of her garden reflected within a person other than herself, but he embodied it, fitting in amongst the leaves, grasses, and colourful petals in a way no one else could. The sorrow on his face stilled her heart. He seemed out of place at the same time, engulfing everything she'd worked so hard to create like a cup that's been filled to the brim. She could feel his anguish from where she stood, allowing his emotions to wash over her like a tidal wave, stealing a glimpse inside of his tortured heart. Like her, he was uncertain of his place in the world. The same weight she had grown accustomed to had been etched into the fabric of his shirt, but he wore it far better than she did. If it bothered him, he hadn't made it known to those closest to him, wielding the weight of it as though it were a sword. He had shaped it into a weapon, one he could control as he saw fit, accepting its existence but never allowing it to flourish. She admired his conviction but couldn't help but notice that he had grown tired of fighting it. His eyes were as dark as the soil that stained her dress, focused on every feature that decorated her face until he had memorized it, from the curve of her cheek to the colour of her eyes. Her appearance hadn't startled him. She belonged there as much as he did.

"What ails you?" she asked, setting her flowers down in front of him. "Some would say I'm proficient in healing others, but I don't think these will help you."

He looked at her flowers and smiled slightly, recognizing some of them for what they were. "No, I'm afraid they won't."

"Will you confide in a stranger?"

"I've confided in many but none so fair," he answered quietly, gazing upon her face as if he were seeing it for the first time. "Who are you?"

Her laugh made his eyes light up. She was surprised to see that some of the darkness within them had vanished, replaced by curiosity instead. She allowed herself a moment of respite, admiring the subtle beauty of his irises, flecks of green, gold, and amber blending into one another to create an ambient shade of brown. There was humor within them if she looked carefully enough for it, lines that stretched from the corners of his eyes to the tips of his ears, faint marks but existent nonetheless. It wasn't difficult to imagine his laugh once she had found enough evidence to prove that he'd done so at one point, a deep chuckle resonating from somewhere far inside of his chest, the resulting smile heartwarming, enough to make everyone in its vicinity smile in reciprocation. She wanted to hear it for herself, envisioning how the wrinkles around his eyes would crinkle up, displaying the warmth she'd seen within them. Laughter was seldom heard in Minas Tirith. His voice was both rough and smooth, the intonation of a man accustomed to a language unlike the one she had been raised to speak. He spoke well, annunciating every syllable in the artful way of someone who had rehearsed his lines many times before, determined to get it right. She liked it. He seemed honest, speaking truthfully because it had made sense for him to do so, allowing his voice to rise and fall like the instrument it was designed to be, its cadence changing slightly depending on how he felt. Her eyes had found his mouth and she blushed, averting her stare before he noticed.

"I am called Lothíriel," she told him, smiling as he mouthed her name wordlessly, tasting the letters. "You are?"

"Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshall of Riddermark."

Her eyes widened in realization. "My Lord! Forgive me! I didn't realize―"

"It's alright," he interrupted, trying to peer into her eyes. "You're Imrahil's daughter, aren't you? I've seen you with Éowyn before."

His sister's name left his lips with a great deal of effort. Lothíriel knew of his grief without having to inquire about it, wishing she'd possessed enough sense to realize who she'd been speaking to. She was throughly embarrassed now, fiddling with the hem of her dress until a part of it frayed beneath her fingers, sticking up in random places like the sunflowers that surrounded them, their bright petals glowing faintly in the darkness like dying embers. She focused on their fiery appearance instead of his eyes, struggling to find the right words to say.

"I am sorry, my Lord. She is beyond my skill to heal," she told him, staring at the embroidery on his shirt.

His sharp inhale didn't go unnoticed. "Then hope has all but left me."

"There is always hope!" she said with conviction, reaching for his hand. "Do not forsake it! As long as there is life, hope remains. Not all is lost."

"I fear it will be."

"Even now?" she asked, trying her best to keep her voice steady. "Light prevails even in the darkest of places, surely you must know that."

She felt his fingers grasp her chin, lifting it up so he could look into her eyes. "My journey ends at the Black Gate. What I'll find there, I do not know."

His fingers caressed her bottom lip, sweeping across the curve of her jaw and into her dark hair. His hand trembled against her skin, betraying his inner fears. She didn't think he was capable of collapsing under pressure, folding in on himself like a piece of paper, hiding every fragile fold from prying eyes. There was something beautiful in how he seemed to embrace it, taking pride in being vulnerable, allowing it to seep into every faucet of his life as though it were an extension of his hand, an object to wield in times of hardship. Remaining strong in the face of adversity had reinforced his strength even when the burden of it had worn him down. Every obstacle was etched into his skin like coordinates on a map, subtle scars that continued to bleed when the weight of his transgressions had become too much to withstand. He'd grown accustomed to it in the same way everything else had, living in constant apprehension of friendship, power, and hope. There was little left for him to believe in. His humanity permeated the very air she breathed, relatable in almost every way possible. She understood that more than anything else, allowing herself to feel exactly how he felt in that instance, encumbered by his sense of responsibility. His breath was hot against her mouth, heavy like the air before a rainstorm, hesitant in a way she couldn't help but find intriguing. She stared into his eyes and he stared back, searching for something she couldn't quite name, afraid that by looking away, she'd lose sight of it forever. He could see this change in her and nearly pulled away, remembering himself, but she wouldn't allow it. She reached out, cradling his face between her hands so she could know him better. He was alive beneath her fingertips, warm, strong, and radiant, too afraid to realize that he'd heal in time. He burned in the space between them as though he were his own sun. He leaned into her ministrations and she smiled sadly, closing the distance between them. Her kiss was gentle, barely there, but he reacted as though she'd lit a fire inside of him, threading his fingers into her hair just to keep himself from becoming a raging inferno. It was difficult to remain in control. Her arms encircled his neck, drawing him closer to her lips, straining to touch the light that burned within him, a flame she felt compelled to reach. His hands found her hips, clutching at the fabric of her dress just to feel the warmth of her skin beneath it. He dragged his mouth across her jaw and sighed into the curve of her neck, muttering her name loudly enough that she could hear it, a deep rumble that seeped into her bones slowly, taking its time.

"Take this," she said quietly against his lips, retrieving the athelas she'd placed before his feet. "It's powerful in the hands of a King."

"Lothíriel, I―"

"Where there is life, there is hope," she told him, placing her hand above his heart. "When you feel as though darkness has swallowed you whole, look for the light."

He took the athelas and sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll look for you, my Lady."

"For me?"

"Aye, for you," he told her, stooping down to collect the rest of her flowers. "Little light remains in Minas Tirith."

Her smile touched the corners of her eyes. She wasn't sure if she'd meet someone like him ever again, failing to capture exactly how he appeared to her in that moment, sad, beautiful, and regal, tall enough to obstruct the moon. Everything had its place in the world but his was elsewhere, far from the flowers that had begun to wilt between her fingers, far from the green expanse that was her garden, and far from her. Reality kicked in, dismantling everything her garden had come to represent. She began to notice how the light of the moon paled in comparison to the light in the east, casting a reddish hue on almost everything it touched, consuming constellations, cities, and entire civilizations until the world burned around her in its own parody of a fire. Every leaf, stem, and petal glittered in the darkness like blood, victims of a battle she had yet to mend. Lothíriel closed her eyes, tucking the rest of her flowers into the folds of her dress, taking comfort in the warmth of his fingers one last time.

"I'll wait for you, Éomer son of Éomund," she said, releasing his hand. "You burn brighter than I."


End file.
